


Mere Lust

by Saraste



Series: Tolkien Fic Week [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Denial, Kissing, Lust, M/M, Tolkien Fic Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:08:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24359323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saraste/pseuds/Saraste
Summary: Thranduil doesn't like Thorin, but that doesn't stop him from lusting after him.
Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield/Thranduil
Series: Tolkien Fic Week [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1757257
Comments: 3
Kudos: 25





	Mere Lust

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Tolkien Fic Week day 2: I hate you.

The haughty glance the elven king gives him is full of contempt, but it doesn't stop him kissing Thorin, deep and long and full of strong emotion, even if it's not love, but mere lust, a lust Thranduil hates.

Or so he always tells Thorin, anyway.

Thorin doesn't find it in himself to care, but responds to the wine-flavoured kiss with eagerness, letting his fingers sink into the long, pale tresses of his kingly counterpart, his ally, _his lover,_ and holds him in place, even when he knows that a kiss won't be the only thing they'll be doing together tonight.

The laughter and music from the party fade away as they kiss for a long time, the first lusty and devouring kiss bleeding seamlessly into another and then another, until they're barely pausing for breath, panting into each other’s mouths, gasping.

Thorin likes how dishevelled he’s made the Mirkwood king, to whom appearance is everything, but who now looks well set on his way to being thoroughly ravished, complete with flushed cheeks and a rapidly heaving chest, his previously impeccably groomed hair now dishevelled by Thorin’s fingers. Thorin knows that he doesn’t look much better himself. But the difference is that he doesn’t care as much as the prissy elf. And he wears a smirk to counter the disdain underlining the lust on Thranduil’s face that the elf cannot quite hide.

That mix of disgruntlement and lust is aimed up at him from where Thorin has pushed the elf down onto a most accommodating settee hidden away in an out of the way alcove a discreet distance away from the revelry of the feast thrown to honour the Ereborean delegation, although the wood elves seem to require little to no reason to throw a party… but it _is_ the start of summer, after all.

‘I wish to be elsewhere,’ Thranduil says, sounding almost bored. 

No, _tells_ him. Not _I wish to be with someone else_ , which Thorin is sure he might have said instead, but couldn’t bring himself to do, as the hard evidence of his arousal is pressed against Thorin’s body where he lies atop of him and cannot be denied.

Thorin smirks, obliging, and extricates himself smoothly. He doesn’t offer a hand up, as the elf wouldn’t take it if he did. 

The way Thranduil rises up to his feet with only slightly stumbling grace is a pleasing sight, which Thorin takes as his due.

Thranduil doesn’t look at him or say anything more as he turns around with a swish of his ridiculously flowy garments and starts striding towards his private chambers without another word.

Thorin follows at a slow amble, knowing the way without leading, his gait a little uneven, cursing the way the flowing silks cover what he knows is a finely shaped backside, the feel of which he knows well under his hands. Which he’ll get to feel again, tonight.

Theirs isn’t a love match, just Thorin enjoying himself and giving Thranduil the roll in the sheets he needs and wants, even when Thranduil would never say it, or ask for it, _for him_. It was always all barely veiled insults and obliquely worded summons, like now.

…at least until Thorin has him naked and so overwhelmed that he begs. 

Now, Thorin doesn’t _need_ for Thranduil to do that, but he also can’t deny that it stokes his own passion most pleasingly, to know the depth of Thranduil’s desperation. But he would know that the elf king was a wanton hedonist at heart even without it. And it’s not the words, the begging, but the breathlessness of Thranduil’s voice that really does it for him.

He’s reached the door to the king’s chambers and lingers there for a moment, knowing full well that every moment he makes the elf wait will simply further stoke his fire, building up a more bone shattering climax for them both. 

He wonders how Thranduil will be waiting for him this time: will he be pacing across the floor, yet another goblet of wine in his fine-boned hand, his flowing robes swishing about his legs and heels clicking on the floor, or will not be in the receiving room, but in the bed room, the door left invitingly open a crack, and when Thorin will enter, there Thranduil will be, spread on the bed, flushed and naked and impatient.

Whichever of the two it’ll be, Thorin knows that he’ll like it.

He enters to find the receiving room empty and has to smirk, it’s always a delight to know how deep into distraction he’s been able to drive his haughty counterpart. Then he remembers that it _has_ been months since they last saw each other, not since the Solstice and it now being the first days of summer, so, no wonder then.

The door to Thranduil’s bedchamber is ajar and Thorin cannot help himself, he stops just outside to listen, his keen ears picking up the harsh breathing and the slick sounds of impatience he knows so well. His cock jumps, by now painfully hard inside his trousers, but relief is coming. He’s not without, while in the Mountain, but this is something else, this is _Thranduil_ , who professes to hate him, yet is still more than willing to bed him, to lust for him. To have and be had.

He pushes the door and enters, closing it softly behind him. 

**Author's Note:**

> ... most of you must hate me now, sorry, this just sorta fizzled out.


End file.
